When Old Kings Wake
by sunshineofthespotlessmind
Summary: Some secrets are best left forgotten. So places are better off lost, some dreamers are best left asleep. But Morgana had never been one to heed warnings, and what she awakens will echo across Albion; after all, angry dragons are very hard to ignore...


The air was thick; so thick she almost choked, as Morgana moved between the tombs. Her light glowed steadily above her, but something here gave strength to the shadows, so they sucked in her lantern and seemed to grow with it, sending chills through her blood as they moved over her. Never had a place been so silent or so cold without being cold; even her bones seemed to ache with it, some insidious thief stealing all thought of warmth.

The passage was long and narrow, and there was no light to be had at the end of it, so she had no knowledge of her progress till she almost collided with the doorway. Oak, thick and dark, unravaged by rot or time it gleamed in the light of her spell, words etched into its surface. The script flowed across the wood in unfamiliar letters, words that shrieked warning even as their translation eluded her.

The wood did not creak as she pushed it open, and though she felt the magic in them it was old, faded by the thousands of years it had stood. She could feel the layers of it, complex and beautiful, the many people that had added to it since the doors had first been carved so long ago, but nothing recent, not for many years. And so she strode on through, past the weak fingered clutching of the ward, and it fell into tatters behind her.

This room was coldest of all, this mausoleum. Her light flickered, fighting a losing battle with the shadows that surrounded it, and she let it fail. At once the darkness pressed close, and cold fingers seemed to slide about her throat, caressing up and down with the gentlest pressure that she knew could turn to iron restraints at any moment.

But still she moved forwards, the scroll that had cast the guardian his life clenched in her fist, and it seemed to her to grow hot in her hand as she moved towards the dais, searing into her fingers like a live coal. She almost screamed, almost, but she caught the sound with her teeth, a metallic tang entering her mouth as she bit down hard on her tongue, and gods it hurt, but the pain was better than screaming. The silence was too deep, too old, and far be it from her to be the one to break it. She almost turned, almost ran, out past the doors and down the corridor and back into the weak winter sunlight, but she couldn't, not now. The secret was here, somewhere, so close she could almost touch it.

Her hands were out in front of her, groping blindly, and she hit the stone just as she stepped forwards, so the impact shuddered up her arm, leaving her dizzy. At her touch it lit up, a constellation in the blackness, a thousand dots of crimson light forming a continuous picture that ran from the base of the standing stone to its tip. A dragon made of bloodlight, so real she jerked her hand away from its gaping maw, and it seemed to her that creature's mouth had opened in a silent hate filled snarl.

Its eyes were the worst.

They burned into her, sending humiliation and fear in equal measure skittering over her nerves in an icy spray, her stomach clenching. How _dare_ she be here, they seemed to ask in words that echoed till her head spun. How _dare _she be in this place, in _his_ presence, and think herself worth _anything_? A mayfly, that was what she was, a beggar child that stood before a god, and Morgana shook her head desperately against the thoughts that came unbidden, that slithered into her head fully formed and filled her with dread.

But her head cleared, and now she could feel the magic of that room; could follow the whispering lines of power that threaded the floor, somehow hidden from her before but perfectly clear to her now, their weaving a song of dizzying colour, and unlike those on the door these were strong, fresh as the day the wards had been set, bright and beautiful and almost perfect. They crossed the floor, webbed the walls and ceiling, leading out from the pillar in a mass of lines, almost like the chains of a prison cell.

And they were wrong. Unable to help herself she twitched uncomfortably as the song soared higher, frowning at the notes that suddenly seemed shrill, jarring; she wanted them to stop. Just for a moment, so she could hear herself think, and without even realising it her hands covered her ears and her head shook, trying to drown out the notes that slipped in silver bright.

But they wouldn't stop, not even when she whimpered softly, and the notes went even higher, splitting her skull in half and now, now she _hated _them, hated them for their beauty and their power and how they trapped her here, and how easy would it be to reach out with her magic and snap them at their weakest point, just as the base of the statue where many threads wove into one, just like that...

The column exploded, throwing her backwards into the wall, and she felt rather than heard the sickening crunch through the light that seared through her eyelids. She could feel the magic, feel the wards snapping like wet rope as the king broke free, the old spells hissing and roiling in useless protest as they were shredded like so much paper.

Then everything was silent again.

The sun was setting when the woman emerged, dressed in the colours of the forest. She blended well, so well that she seemed suddenly to melt from the line of trees, a spirit from the branches above given human form. In an instant the Merlin was on his feet, magic welling under his skin, but the woman held out her hands, her gesture of peace obvious even to a blind man.

"Who are you, my lady?" He asked cautiously, because even a novice could have felt the power in her; the soft greens and browns of a forest glade.

Bright white teeth, startling against nut brown skin, appeared momentarily as the woman bit her lip. "I have a request of you Emrys." She said, and her eyes were sad, the sharp bright green mellowed softer by sorrow. As she stepped into the firelight Merlin could see a thin band of silver on her brow, her manner that of a queen, but when she spoke her words were laced with apprehension.

"It is the child." Her eyes closed as if against her will, and she seemed for a moment to struggle with herself. "Mordred."

The fire snapped as Merlin breathed out, one long exhale that seemed to fill the clearing.

"Come again?" Merlin asked, and the woman sighed; it must have been the smoke, he thought, that made her eyes shine with what looked like tears.

"We can do nothing more for him. His power grows daily and none of us can match it; it rivals the greatest of us. He is so _angry_, Emrys, such rage that we fear it will consume him like it has so many others." She trailed off, suddenly unable to meet his gaze.

Merlin raised an eyebrow at her words, disbelief written in every line of his face. "You do know that I tried to kill him?" He asked, words a deliberate blow, and internally he winced at the cruelty in his tone but she had to _understand_. There was nothing he could do.

The woman nodded and opened her mouth, but then she closed it again, her stance apprehensive. "I know what the Great Dragon has told you," she began, and the usual serenity that surrounded the druids seemed to her deserted her, because she pacing around the clearing, eyes incredibly earnest. "But if he continues like this that future will happen anyway. You do not understand how his anger feeds his power; not two nights ago he summoned a wight; it took two of us before the rest were roused, and only with all of us in tandem could we exorcise it. He said he dreamt of it, that it was calling to him." She took a step forward and suddenly her eyes were like fire. "Please, Emrys, please, you have to help him. Please!" She cried again as he began to shake his head, and Merlin could feel himself giving in.

But he wasn't going to make it easy.

"What makes you think he'll even see me?" He asked. "I did try to kill the boy, after all." And there was little of Camelot's Merlin left in him now, could he but realise it. That Merlin was a mask, the bumbling fool who tripped over stools and rugs and nothing at all; it was Emrys who stared at the woman, and she felt his gaze like a weight.

"He has agreed already. I think he wants to kill you."

Emrys nodded, and relief lighting her face and limbs till she almost sagged with it. "Thank you." She murmured, and Emrys bled from Merlin's face.

"Would you like to stay?" He asked, gesturing the fire. "The prat thinks I'm out gather herbs, so you won't be disturbed."

But she shook her head, and even as she vanished back into the trees, her voice seemed to come from all around him. "He will meet you here. Two days, Emrys."


End file.
